Within the Lamp
by Redfeatherz66
Summary: John Watson isn't human. He hopes that his new flatmate won't notice. Unfortunately, that flatmate is a bit clever... Watson POV. No slash, rated for mild language and drug use in later chapters.
1. 221B

**Title: **Within the Lamp  
><strong>Summary: <strong>When John moved into 221B, he expected trouble. In a way, he was asking for it- keeping such a massive secret under the nose of the world's only consulting detective. You see, John is a djinn.  
><strong>Origins:<strong> Idea has roots from the book _Children of the Lamp_, intermixed with the main ideas from BBC's Sherlock. (I do not own)  
><strong>Setting:<strong> follows A Study In Pink, but deviates from there.  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> None (as of yet, but if any do develop, they will not be slash.)  
><strong>Updates:<strong> 3 times a week (more if there are a large amount of reviews, or if the reviews are extra detailed. Critique and suggestions are welcome, flames are not.)  
><em><strong>Other Notes:<strong>_ Djinn means genie (pronounced gin, like the drink).

**Be warned- the first two chapters are a bit fast, but I'm just getting through 'A Study in Pink' so the real content can begin. Reviews are much appreciated.**

_**Prologue**_

It wasn't coincidence that found me cautiously entering the lab where I was to meet my future flatmate, friend, and (unfortunately often) antagonist. It wasn't fate, or luck, or destiny, or whatever higher power one might blame such occurrences on. No, it was something far more discernible than a vague superstition or idea.

Unfortunately, it took me longer than it should've to recognize the real force between our converging paths.

_**Chapter One: In the Dark**_

I followed Stamford into the pristine super-modern lab, the powerfully clean scent of rubbing alcohol and the smell of the microscopes (warm plastic from running all day) as familiar to me as a security blanket. It was a bit newer and higher-tech than what I was used to, but in a comforting way. It was being a doctor before that meant explosions and gunpowder and deliberate harm, before the war. The lack of dust and screaming men, like metal on metal, was a definite improvement, let alone the computers and automated systems.

My attention was drawn to a lanky figure operating a pipet, leaned low in concentration, but operating the pipet with such ease that he was obviously thinking about something other than the drops of fluid (water, likely, from the wet-mount slides I saw lined in front of him) he so perfectly eased onto each bit of glass.

No scrubs- were those old-fashioned now, too? He had a dark sort of suit on (not sure what kind- I tend to doze when topics moved toward wardrobe fashion), and had black curly hair, and pale skin. The harsh white-and-black contrast was startling. His eyes didn't even move from what he was doing to notice us.

I don't know why I lent such a peculiar man my phone. I've been called too trusting and moral before, but I'd thought the war had tempered it a bit. Guess not. Or perhaps it was the peculiarity about him that made me do it.

And then he knew my life. That should've been my first hint toward the truth, but I was a bit shell-shocked and in awe. Anyways, if he was so observant, then it should've been he who made the connection first, so I didn't even entertain the idea. That, paired with the blatant disregard toward the woman that betrayed his appalling apathy, killed the thought at the root.

I confess, his assuming manner made me a bit peeved, but I was intrigued with this odd creature enough to remain cool. Intrigued enough to go to 221B Baker Street.

Between the first and the second meeting with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I occupied my time by ridding myself of as much nervousness and energy as I could, hanging around the hospital under the pretense of looking for a potential job. Little did they know, I was already working, paying visit after visit until a particularly draining stop to a kindly woman in the cancer wing left me exhausted.

I was out of practice- I hadn't given her more than two extra years.

But it did help me, at least, and enough others that I didn't feel like I was doing it to be self-serving. I felt suitably relaxed and languid by the time I arrived at 221B Baker Street. Djinn power was like coffee- focusing and helpful in some cases, but in an overabundance or in the wrong situation, it led to jitters.

My own djinn energy was pleasantly mellow when Holmes stepped out of the cab.

I was glad to meet Mrs. Hudson, who seemed very kind, if slightly frail, both of which were great benefits. She would be a promising outlet, if Holmes proved to be a bad idea. Despite the mentioned incident about the death charge in Florida, I sensed a compassionate, empathetic soul in her.

The flat itself was comfortable, if a bit untidy. I noticed a skull on the mantle. It wasn't fake. The police suddenly were there, asking for his help, and he was dancing like it was his eighth birthday. About a serial killer. I was beginning to have second thoughts, until he was back and asking if I wanted to go.

I'd thought I'd had my fill of violence, but I found myself agreeing whole-heartedly. As much as I enjoyed helping at hospitals, this was _real_ adventure, where it was uncertain if we were helping people after the fact or before it, both arriving too late to stop death but tracking its cause to prevent it in the future.

Plus, I had already become a seasoned violence campaigner. Might as well put to use my adaptation to danger, as well as my djinn power. I suddenly regretted spending so much of it already today, but how was I supposed to know that I would be dragged off on a police investigation?

Holmes asked me to observe the body. With his keen eyes on me, and my tendency to become clumsy when fatigued, I dared not employ any djinn power, instead relying on mortal doctoring skills. I wasn't sure what Holmes was looking for- a man clever as he probably already knew everything I told him. I wasn't even sure why he'd taken me to the crime at all, but that was Holmes for you.

Then, would you believe it, he was off again, shouting about pink and leaving me at the crime scene, and I wasn't even sure what street I was on. Cursing under my breath, I vowed to keep enough energy to at least skip short distances, and asked the lady police officer where the main road was.

She gave me directions, as well as a bit of advice about Holmes. I wasn't sure if she was just bitter about the affair he'd so belligerently pointed out to everyone, or was seriously warning me. I began hobbling toward the road, cursing more as the rain made my leg ache. The shot I'd taken to the shoulder during the war had clipped my spine, damaging important nerves that operated that leg. As lucky as I was to not have been completely paralyzed, I was still slightly bitter about the whole ordeal. Nobody believed that a shot to the shoulder could ruin a leg.

On the way, I witnessed something very strange- a phone in a telephone booth ringing. Was it even possible to call them? My instinct made me uneasy, and I suspected it had to do with me, but I dismissed it. A telephone booth on a busy street ringing for me, one in a large crowd. Not likely.

It happened again, and my curiosity got the best of me. I entered the booth and hesitantly picked up the receiver. The voice on the other end was presumptuous, but anyone who could control the street cameras and ring a public phone had every reason to be proud. I thought of my gun, lying useless in my desk, as I climbed in the vehicle.

We arrived at a warehouse. The ride had been uncomfortable, filled with anticipation and nerves and the infuriating clicking sound as that woman texted away, with that damn cocky higher-than-thou smirk that I was so unfortunately familiar with on women's faces. Though I was used to violence, I wasn't a violent person myself, so I tried to make small talk. With no success.

The warehouse was open and what I supposed should be intimidating, a proper place for a mysterious man of great power to have secret meetings. It was surreal, like something out of a movie. He requested I spy on Holmes for him, in exchange for money. I refused.

"Then, please, I will give you whatever you desire, if you just swear this one thing- not for my own desires, but for the greater good. I promise, this one thing isn't self-serving," the man, Mycroft, said unexpectedly. His tone made me all the more nervous.

"Depends on what it is, I suppose," I said neutrally, preparing to refuse as tactfully as possible.

"You must not let him know anything about the genie world."

My first reaction, a gut reaction, was to bristle. The word 'genie' was so overused that it had become a slang term one such as I. The ideas of floating blue Arabic men granting three wishes was woefully inaccurate, not to mention demeaning. I'd had an estranged uncle who'd been called a 'genie' by a group of proud, nomadic djinn. In response, he'd skipped all their belongings to the mucky depth of the Thames, right in the path of a boatload of suddenly-rich mudlarks.

My second reaction was shock. Who was this man, who proclaimed himself as my flatmate's 'arch-enemy' (do normal people even have arch-enemies?) and then revealed that he knew of djinnkind? How did he know? He wasn't a djinn- one djinn could always sense another, unless he'd had his powers bound.

Then, fear. This man, with obvious power, knew about djinn, and knew I was one. And either he was incredibly knowledgeable about the subtle workings of the world, about the three sects of beings, or he was a djinn himself who had done something horrible enough to have his powers bound. Neither idea was appealing to me.

"I can see you have questions. All you need to know is that I'm not a djinn myself, unfortunate as that is, but I do know people who are. Just believe me when I say that Sherlock Holmes must never know about that world."

"I hadn't planned on telling him," I said. Mycroft nodded.

"Good."

"And you don't need to give me anything."

"I can give you anything, things that even djinn power can't grant."

"No, thank you. I just want to go home," I said, wondering where everything had gone insane. Probably when I leant Holmes my phone, and he suddenly knew my life.

The meeting ended as it had started- awkward silences with the texting woman. I exited the vehicle in a huff.

I retrieved my gun. Djinn power couldn't be used to kill others- the power of man kept us from forcing death or change on them directly. I couldn't do anything directly to a man against his will, so I had to stick to mortal means for defense.

More adventures followed. I minded Mycroft's warning, and didn't use any djinn power around Holmes, not when we were chasing a cab across London (could've used djinn power to pop its tire, or to simply skip across town to catch it, or to at the very least slow it down) or when Inspector Detective Lestrade was rummaging through the flat (to hide a select few objects from view). It was very tempting to use it when Holmes was all but overdosing on nicotine patches, but I wasn't even sure how to use the power to help.

No, I kept my power tightly sealed within, only using it when I was certain Holmes was elsewhere, and even then, only granting the smallest of boons to just take the edge of the jitters off. I wondered how long I could keep it up.

Not for long, I soon found out.

Holmes was equal blessing and curse. He expressed a level of genius unseen in anyone I'd ever encountered, and yet, was so bloody ignorant about other things that I wondered whether he was mentally handicapped or not. He was the worst and the best flatmate I could've asked for. The flat was a mess- the cabinets in the kitchen were full of chemicals and unmarked jars, so when I made tea, I was glad that my djinn blood made me immune to poison, in case I mixed up the containers. He was lazy and temperamental and disrespectful, and there was an unnerving edge to him, like a lion that thought it was a housecat.

But he had his perks. He was full of a boundless energy that was unmatched in any others. There was never a dull moment. There was so much excitement about him that what I'd believed to be impossible had happened- my leg was restored.

Holmes claimed it was psychosomatic, but I had other thoughts. Perhaps this man was more than a man. But that didn't make sense- I should have been able to sense inhuman power from the very beginning. And Mycroft's warnings ran in my ears. As I walked freely again, for the first time in too long, I wondered long and hard about the happenings around Holmes.

Crisis struck. I realized what had happened moments after Holmes left the flat, and the GPS track of the phone showed it leaving 221B exactly as he left 221B. I stared at the moving dot on the screen, at odds with what to do.

I could try to guess where Holmes and the killer were going, but that was a risky choice. If I did, however, and guessed right, I would arrive only moments after they did.

I could also wait, and see where they were going so there wouldn't be the chance of going to the wrong place. If I went to the wrong place, then Holmes would almost certainly be dead, so waiting was a better idea. But waiting took up precious time, and it was nearly as risky.

The last option was to do the best of both choices- to wait and see where they were going, but also arrive only moments after they did. I could skip to that location in a split second. It was still very risky, but this time, my own risk rather than Holmes'.

Holmes- or, rather, Sherlock's. Friends use Christian names. We had become friends, if that was the right word for it.

There was only one choice, really.


	2. Curiouser and Curiouser

**I understand that the first chapter is kind of rushed (and so is this chapter) but I'm just getting through 'A Study in Pink' so I can begin the new plot and action and such. Things will pick up- I pinkie promise!**

There was only one choice, really. I waited. Nearly quarter of an hour, I waited, staring at the laptop, disregarding the chatter of the drugs bust in the room. It finally stopped at the campus of a school. I knew of it.

I dashed down the empty stairwell, skipping from 221B on the fourth step where I was out of sight.

Then I was at the school, in the yard, swaying slightly as I took a moment to reorient myself. There were two buildings, beside each other, and the now-empty cab was parked between them in such a way that it was impossible to tell which building. And the GPS hadn't been able to resolve close enough to show what exact building it was.

I ran left, shouting for Sherlock with abandon, hoping I'd picked right. I threw open doors, some with my hands, some opening as I looked at them. First floor was empty, of course. Second floor yielded the same results. There was only one floor left. I thundered up the stairs, glad to be rid of my limp, and checked every room.

When I was about halfway down the hall, I chanced a glance out the window, noticing blue lights flashing- I'd called the police on my search through the first floor. And I saw him.

I could see them clearly, with my adrenaline-enhanced vision. Sherlock, like a bird caught in the gaze of a serpent, raising his hand to his mouth. I was certain there was a pill in it, identical to the one that the cabbie was about to place in his own mouth. The death pill. One was the death pill, and I wouldn't stand and watch as Sherlock gambled his life.

The gun was in my hand, feeling natural and repugnant at the same time, my natural pacifism warring with my soldier conditioning. Rather than make me tremble, the clash of ideals gave my hands perfect steadiness.

A single, perfect shot.

Shouting, alarm, orders. I heard them, but saw nothing. The moment I'd seen the blood splatter from the cabbie's destroyed shoulder, I'd ducked, summoned my djinn power, and skipped to a bridge on the Thames, half a mile away. I reached for the gun with the same power, and pulled it apart, scattering the molecules through the air and then into the waters of the Thames, just for good measure.

Then I began the slow walk back, already concocting an alibi.

I returned to see Sherlock sitting in the back of an ambulance, fighting with the EMT's, trying to give the ugly orange shock blanket back. I decided to give him a minute, and loitered by one of the police cars. I watched Lestrade pace over to him, and saw Sherlock begin deducing- about the shooter, I was certain. Then his eyes found mine, and his words ceased as he put the puzzle pieces together. I enjoyed the novel expression of surprise on his face, while keeping my own expression decidedly neutral.

He said something dismissive to Lestrade and joined me at the edge of the crime tape. We began walking away from the scene.

"The gun?" he asked, skipping the pleasantries.

"Good to see you alive too." I didn't answer his question though, which was lucky, as we were approached by a familiar figure. Mycroft. I blinked, wondering what he was doing here. If this had been his plot. Didn't arch-enemies try to off each other through nefarious, complicated plots?

"Mycroft," Sherlock greeted stiffly. Mycroft greeted him in the same manner.

"You really ought to stop running off on your own," Mycroft said.

"I've been doing it since I was old enough to walk. Old habits break hard," Sherlock said mysteriously. I looked between the two of them uneasily.

"Mum will be displeased if you get yourself killed. You know she'll take it out on me."

"Nonsense. You've always been her favorite little social butterfly," Sherlock replied snarkily. My confusion doubled.

"Wait, you two are…?"

"Yes, Mycroft Holmes is my brother."

"I'm seven years his elder, though, something he forgets awfully often." Mycroft took in my blank look of surprise. "What? I told you it was an old feud. A childhood feud, to be precise, though I didn't say it then." He turned back to Sherlock. "Take care. I mean it, stop throwing yourself into idiotic situations. Take a safe desk job- it just so happens that I have an opening for a shoe-polisher-,"

"Go back to your hoity-toity club, Mycroft," Sherlock interrupted, starting to walk away. I hesitated, not wanting to be rude but not wanting to lose Sherlock, either. Mycroft nodded good-bye to me.

"And don't forget what I told you," he intoned. I nodded and departed gladly, catching up to Sherlock after a moment.

"So, the gun?"

"Bottom of the Thames," I said with a sigh.

"Looks like you've gotten to be quite the runner, now that you've lost your limp" he commented. "The police searched, but you managed to scarper quickly. Nice work." From anyone else, it would be a careless bit of chat.

"Being unable to walk properly for a long time makes it much more enjoyable, too. And you're running about keeps me on my toes," I replied, trying not to be too defensive, or to lie, something that I'd never developed a skill for.

"You got from 221B to here, then fired a gun, then ran to the Thames and back in a span of about seventeen in a half minutes. You aren't breathing hard, and you don't have your wallet (I presume it's still sitting on the side table where you always put it at the end of the day) so you couldn't have paid a cab. How?" Sherlock spoke without curiosity or confusion. It was hardly a question, more of a demand, really.

I chose to remain silent rather than attempt to lie.

"Because unless you stole a vehicle or bicycle or transported- what was that?" he said suddenly. I glanced at him, trying to muster the proper confusion and innocence in my face.

"What was what?"

"There, when I suggested you stole a bicycle or transported, your steps became lighter for a moment, and the pores on your hairline began to emit perspiration."

"Sorry. Just a bit tired, I suppose," I said as carelessly as I could manage.

"No. Did you steal a bicycle?" I didn't reply, but he seemed to take a response from my expression anyway, though I didn't think my face changed at all. "You didn't transport. I will accept improbable answers as the truth, but the impossible is illogical and false."

"Sherlock, leave it," I warned, hailing a cab. I was wary of the driver in a way I'd never been before.

Mercifully, he said nothing, turning his head to stare out the window. I leaned my head back, exhausted from the emotional drain, as well as the pressure I'd put on my power, skipping twice in quick succession (and the first one hadn't been short, it had been a few miles) and then uncreating doors and a gun.

When we got back the flat, Sherlock walked behind me. It made me nervous, and it took two tries to unlock the door, something I was certain he was very aware of. I made my excuses and went to my room. I shut the door carefully, and locked it, though I knew it didn't make a difference to a man like Sherlock, who understood lockpicking much better than he understood privacy.

I all but fell onto the bed and let out a relaxed breath, enjoying the soft comfort on my weary body. Skipping didn't take a lot of energy, much like walking up a single flight of stairs wasn't bad, but skipping twice in such a short time was like taking two flights of stairs at a run. And uncreating was foolish of me- I should've just dropped it in the Thames and been done with it, but I was full of adrenaline and slightly panicky.

Djinn have two main 'abilities', or rather, ways to channel the power we hold within. We can create and uncreate. Skipping is much like uncreating, but because it's the body of a djinn (my own body) I'm uncreating, it's more willing to be pulled apart. The skip itself is essentially just pulling oneself into molecules that can move at speeds that bodies just can't achieve. Miles can pass in seconds, but the energy drain rose exponentially with the distance. That is, going four miles as opposed to one wasn't four times harder, it was to the fourth power harder.

Creating is the more well-known expression of djinn power. Three wishes and such, and a djinn whips whatever the clever mortal wants right out of the air. It's simply the reverse process of creating. Uncreating is harder, because things don't want to come apart. They don't want to not exist. At least, that's the easiest way to understand. The physics major who explained it to me couldn't simplify the technical explanation very well.

Point is, uncreating was tiring. I roused myself enough to put on pyjamas and brush my teeth, before tumbling back into bed. I gratefully sank into unconsciousness.

Morning came quickly and with much noise.


	3. Short Lived Secrets

Morning came quickly and with much noise.

"Good morning, John! I made you breakfast, so come eat it while it's still warm!" Sherlock shouted, somehow in my room and throwing the blinds open. I moaned, throwing an arm over my eyes to protect my retinas.

"What?" I managed, mind foggy from sleep. My pillow was suddenly yanked from beneath my head. I heard it fall on the floor as my head thumped back on the mattress.

"I made breakfast. That's what people do for those who save their lives or whatnot, right? They give something in return. I give breakfast. Kitchen," he said. He left the room, and I heard him thump back downstairs to the main room.

I wondered what terrible deeds I had done in a past life to deserve such a crazed flatmate.

Rousing myself was a war, but the light shining in did help a bit. I realized I'd slept for quite a while, and it was late morning. I stretched, thinking that my djinn power was out of practice. During the war, I had kept my powers well-exercised and fit, but since then, I'd let them fall into slight disuse.

Making my way down the stairs, I sniffed the air tentatively. I didn't catch the scent of anything charring or noxious. To my surprise, it was actually quite delicious- eggs with the white cooked through but the yolk left runny, crisp salty-sweet bacon, orange juice, and a sort of crêpe-like pancakes Sherlock called a 'ploye'. I found they were soft and doughy when covered with maple syrup or jam.

"Where did you learn to cook?" I asked, crunching on a piece of bacon.

"My mother was fond of taking us travelling to learn things abroad. This is a breakfast I learned to make in southeastern Canada. The eggs are over-easy, the bacon was fried with maple syrup, and the ployes are cooked on one side only," he said absentmindedly, ripping small pieces off a ploye in his hand and munching on them.

"Sounds thrilling," I said honestly. I'd only ever travelled to Afghanistan for the war. Everything I wanted or needed was in London, so I was content there.

"It was exhausting," he said, sitting across from me as I finished my breakfast. The moment I set my glass down, he began speaking again. "Did you teleport?"

I didn't reply.

"I don't need you to speak. You are too honest of a man, John, I can read your answer in your face. All I have to do is ask yes or no questions, and I can see the answer in your expression," he said lightly, eyes focused on mine. I looked away. "If you were to reply, though, I would be grateful. Because your face says you teleported, but I don't believe that to be possible. Is it?"

I remained silent.

"Was it enabled by technology?"

"…"

"Are you human?"

I couldn't help it. My gaze went up and locked with his for an instant before I looked back down at the table. It was enough.

He stood, taking a slow, noisy breath in, then out. He left, walking behind me into the sitting room. I heard him settle into his chair. Calmly as I could manage, I stood and took my plate over to the sink, rinsed it, and placed it in the dishwasher. I wiped down the counters and finally turned to the sitting room.

Sherlock was sitting with his legs thrown out straight in front of him, leaned back, an arm tossed over his face, the other with the white shirtsleeve rolled up, five patches on his arm that he clenched and relaxed.

I pulled off four of them, only leaving the one because I felt he was under a lot of stress, and put them on the mantle. I sat across from him. I had always had too much pity and kindness for my own good.

"There… there are three classes of sentient beings on earth," I began hesitantly, trying to think back to when my own mother explained it to me. She had done a great job, and I didn't think I would be nearly as good as she.

"There are the humans, physical beings of will. Then there are the angels, ethereal beings of power. And somewhere between are the djinn. Humans are physical life, with cells and existence. Djinn are like fire- not quite as alive as humans, not quite as undead as angels. And angels are unalive and undead.

"I don't understand angels very well," I said apologetically. "They exist on a different plane, and you can't meet one- they aren't physical like you or I. It's like…" I trailed off, trying to think of how to explain it, "Humans are the atoms, and they can control those atoms. Djinn are the bonds between the atoms, and we control the bonds. And angels are the gaps between." I frowned at my crummy description.

"Humans can impose their will on things. Imagination and creativity are extensions of that will. They can suspend disbelief, push their bodies past what they should be able to, and other things that are done by will. Djinn have very little power of will, like you. I could make a sculpture or write a poem, but it takes more focus than it would a man.

"That's why djinn can't touch humans, because the willpower. No, wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. Um… Angels have raw power, to do anything. Djinn have a mix of both, enough power to temper the will, and vice versa. Our power is limited to creating and uncreating. Your willpower cancels out my djinn power- I couldn't do anything to you against your will. I couldn't uncreate you.

"But because I am a djinn, without the willpower, another djinn could use his or her power on me. Not uncreate me or anything drastic, but he could hurt parts of me. It's like how humans exchange blows with their fists- djinn exchange blows with our power.

"The humanity in me gives me a physical form, but my life cycle is different from yours, different from the angels. The angels don't live and die. Djinn live for a bit longer than humans- I will outlive the average man by about fifteen years, and when I die, whatever happens to humans won't happen to me. I will start the cycle over. Reincarnation," I explain. "I am also immune to poison and disease, though I'm more sensitive to temperature."

The words fell from my mouth like stones, making a loud noise in my ears but making me feel lighter at the same time. Sometime through it, Sherlock had removed his arm from his face and sat up properly, hands clasped in front of him, elbows on his knees, leaning forward slightly. He was silent for a long moment after I stopped, studying my face in an unnerving way.

"Show me," he said finally. I sighed, half expecting him to say that.

I looked at the corner of the room beside the couch. "There. Watch," I said wearily. Skipping took the smallest toll on my energy, and I could do it fairly gracefully without much effort.

In a fraction of a second, I was standing in the corner of the room by the couch, where I'd indicated. He stared at me without blinking as I lifted my arms slightly to catch my balance, knees twinging from going to a sitting to standing position in molecular form.

"That is what we call a 'skip'. Skipping, creating, and uncreating are the three main things we can do, though skipping is technically a combination of uncreating and creating, but with our bodies. Like I said, we control the bonds between the atoms. I destroy them and recreate them."

Sherlock stood and walked over to me until we were almost nose to nose. He stared at me for a moment, then put a finger on my forehead and pushed. I swayed slightly from the force.

"You just did that," he mumbled, frowning. Then he was pacing. "But the focus necessary! Reassembling millions of atoms in a millisecond, and doing it properly! Do you have to think about it?" he asked, shifting from mutely shocked to manic in an instant.

"No. It's much like walking- you don't have to focus on every muscle. It's just natural," I said with a shrug.

"I want to see something else. Something bigger," he demanded. "I want to see you create something."

"Sherlock, I'm tired from yesterday," I protested. It was futile. He argued and made a fuss until I asked him to be quiet for a moment. Then I made my way back to my chair. He sat in his, or rather, crouched, feet on the cushion, knees nearly at his chin.

I held out a hand and focused. I wasn't sure what to make, so I kept it simple. A red ball swirled visibly into existence, seeming to coalesce from dust in the air. The process took about a second. I felt the blowback, and wearily handed the ball to Sherlock.

He accepted it as if it was a precious gem or pearl, squinting at it, closing first one eye then the other, squeezing it gently, and finally throwing it off the floor so it bounced off the floor, off the wall, and back into his hand.

"Happy?" I asked. He rolled the ball around in his hand, face alight like a child, then leaned forward again.

"Tell me more about creating and uncreating."


	4. The Cabbie's Game

"Happy?" I asked. He rolled the ball around in his hand, face alight like a child, then leaned forward again.

"Tell me more about creating and uncreating."

The better part of the day was spent talking my throat hoarse, explaining things best as I could, trying to answer Sherlock's many questions. When he began trying to delve into the science of things, I held up my hands to stop him.

He refused to believe that hundreds of djinn scientists had studied themselves and their kind, doing all sorts of experiments and tests, trying to find out where the power comes from and how it works. We understood that we could control the bonds between things, but there seemed to be limits- we couldn't rearrange the bonds to change one thing into another.

For example, I couldn't use my power to change something's color. I could create something like it, but with the color I wanted, but changing already created things was beyond my abilities.

I couldn't move things with my power, except for myself. Well, theoretically, I could- by uncreating it and then recreating it in a different place, but it would take a ridiculous amount of energy, especially since I could just pick it up and move it with my hands with almost no effort.

I couldn't read minds, I couldn't create or uncreate living things, but I could skip other living things, but it took an extreme amount of effort.

He asked me why I could skip other living things if skipping was creating and uncreating in quick succession. I answered with difficulty. The reason that djinn couldn't uncreate living things was the force of will, which belonged most to humans, but also to other mortal creatures, excluding felines.

But we could skip them because we weren't really overwhelming the force of will, which was impossible. We were simply suspending it for a moment, just long enough to force the dissolved molecules into motion, then allowing will to reassert itself. Also, because of the way willpower was manifested, it could only be done if the living creature wasn't working its will against our djinn power- that is to say, if the human was 'willing' to let the djinn skip it.

Sherlock was interested in the mention of felines as well. I explained that each domain of being had their creatures, just as humans had their creatures. Many djinn scientists theorized that there were once many other djinn-creatures in addition to felines, but had gone extinct. Much like djinnkind population had dwindled, the djinn-creatures lost much of their population as well. Angels might have their creatures too, but if they did, they would be ethereal like themselves.

"Have you ever looked in the eyes of a housecat or a tiger and thought there was something alien and peculiar about it?" I asked him. He nodded knowingly, understanding. "They don't have much control over the power, but they have enough to skip very short distances, and do very small alterations to the world around them. They reincarnate like djinn as well. Some scientist believe that they even keep their memories of past lives, unlike us, who forget all but vague sensations and scattered knowledge."

"How have the djinn been reduced in number, if they reincarnate?" he asked.

"It's like the edge of a knife, if you could excuse the overused expression," I said apologetically, but not sure how else to explain. "Humans on one side. Angels on the other. And djinn are the fine line between, not one and not the other. It's speculated that falling to one side or the other is easy. Between reincarnations, they somehow fall off the edge and become one or another. That's the theory, at least- again, nobody is really certain."

"Is it genetic?"

"It's more commonly genetic, but there are rare occasions when a djinn couple has a human child, or even rarer, a human couple has a djinn child. Usually a djinn child to a human couple ends disastrously." Exorcisms, witch scares, and conspiracy theories cropped up around such children.

It was less often now, though. There were secret sects of djinn who usually stepped in and took the child, and occasionally, mischievous djinn or djinn teen pregnancies (it didn't just happen to humans) would do the opposite, switching a djinn child into a human family. The term 'changeling' came from this practice.

Eventually I stopped him, pleading fatigue and a lunch date.

"Will you take a taxi?" he asked. "Or will you skip?" I snorted, then realized he was serious. Having a human friend who knew of the djinn world was going to get tiring quickly. Not that Sherlock wasn't tiring enough without my big secret as fodder.

"No, I'll take a cab. Skipping is tiring, and it can be alarming if you appear in front of someone."

"What if you reassemble your molecules halfway through a wall or something, or try to reassemble where someone is standing?" he asked.

I grabbed my keys and wallet and left, ignoring him. I could all but feel the pompous, yet somehow endearing smirk aimed at the back of my head.

When I returned home earlier than I'd have wanted, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. I found myself fretting for a moment- his disappearances were common, but I wondered if the new knowledge he'd gleaned had anything to do with it. What if he'd gone djinn-hunting or something awful and very Sherlock-esque?

_Where are you? JW_ I texted to him.

_At the lab. SH_

_Keeping out of trouble? JW_

_Quell your paranoia. Of course. I'll be back to the flat in an hour or so. SH_

I studied his response for a moment, trying to detect any of his beloved sarcasm in it, but eventually decided he was genuine. I was preparing for an early night to bed when the phone rang. Finishing brushing my teeth quickly and cursing bad timing that so often struck, I hastened to answer.

"John speaking," I said.

"John! This is Lestrade. Is Sherlock there?"

"No, he's gone off to the lab. He should be back soon, though."

"Oh, well, if so, then when he gets back can you ask him to call? Not if it's after ten, though, because I'll be in bed. We analyzed the pill we found with the cabbie, like he requested. It's just a placebo, no hints on where it came from, so there's no point in trying to track where the cabbie got it. Looks like a dead end- sorry."

"That's okay," I said with a shrug. Something nagged at the back of my mind. Lestrade laughed.

"You haven't been around Sherlock when he's been without a case. Just you wait, and _then_ say if it's okay or not."

"Sounds bad," I laughed in return. "Good think I've already been through war once."

"And you'll go through another when he gets bored. Don't keep any loaded weapons in the flat." I wasn't sure if he was joking or not- it was hard to tell when it was about Sherlock.

I suddenly realized what had been bothering me. "Did you recover the other pill? The poison one? You could track that, couldn't you?"

"No, we didn't, which is a shame. Not much of a loss, though, because we've already got samples of the kind of poison from the deaths. No point in tracking that either, because it's a very common kind he could've gotten anywhere. But the pill wasn't found."

I felt cold.

"Oh, of course. I hadn't thought of the poison in the others. I'll tell Sherlock you called." I muttered a quick good-bye and hung up.

I reviewed the scene from the night again in my head. It was hard to remember- I had been able to see their raised hands, but the details were blurry. The whole thing had occurred so fast, I'd barely had time to process it. I tried my hardest to envision it again, wishing I had a perfect memory like my flatmate.

Had Sherlock eaten the poison pill?


End file.
